. . . it's complicated . . .

angels

an old cobwebbed beardy writes poetry which nobody wants to read – he doesn’t even know where these words come from – some of the things he writes about have been knocking about for years – since he was a teenager – muses have come and gone and now he bides his time in solitude waiting for his angel to take him away – his shepherdess – there is simply no point trying to explain his thoughts to the outside world anymore – he barely steps outside his own thoughts – when you have nothing your thoughts become your only precious possessions – he glides through them like an eagle searching for prey – somewhere hot would be nice – he’s always fancied ending his days propped against a smooth boulder at the entrance to a cave on the side of a cliff overlooking a vast expanse of nothing – but would his angel – his shepherdess – know where to find him – and would the wolves find him first and tear his flesh from his bones – never one for taking risks he elected to stay put – surely she would find him here – he listens for her every day – in the sound of the birds in the overgrown garden – in the wind that whistles through the cracks in the window frames – in the conversations that keep him company when he closes his eyes and leans back into his solitude – the sun warm upon his old cobwebbed beardy face – his smile radiating contentment – he would never know how it came to be that he became an angel himself – what a mystery this life is – how it takes us without warning.

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7 thoughts on “angels”

Isn’t that how Prometheus went? Feeling mythical are we? Writing poetry, or anything at all, seems to be a difficult way to be heard in the world. My granddaughter is doing Tic Toc – she seems to be on to something. Afraid this old brain can’t cope with that stuff, so back to the words.

Yes I believe you are correct about Prometheus although it hadn’t crossed my mind – perhaps he slipped in there subliminally! As a warning! I think I might one day attain mythical status – but only in my own mind lol. Yes, back to the words, said the old cobwebbed beardy!

The conundrum is that we either advertise our words or keep them private. One way invites criticism of any stripe the other we drown on self-criticism. As to picking one’s end! now there’s an idea for a poem! First time I’ve been back for a while Colin, good to read you! Any beers in that cave?